


Hate

by cerealskiller



Series: Saints and Sinners [2]
Category: Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children (2016), Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - Ransom Riggs
Genre: Angst, Brother/Sister Incest, F/M, Incest, Non-Graphic Violence, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tragedy, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23738704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerealskiller/pseuds/cerealskiller
Summary: “Their sins are smeared on each other.”
Relationships: Jack "Caul" Bentham/Alma LeFay Peregrine
Series: Saints and Sinners [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608817
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	Hate

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I do not condone incest and rape. I do not intend to glamorize either. This is about Jack's obsession and how Alma suffers because of it. 
> 
> Both matters should not be romanticized, unless you're into Cersei and Jaime. Ew.

Jack's grip on her waist tensed possessively as his calloused fingers caressed her soft skin, the sounds slipping through her lips as he makes his obsessions apparent set him ablaze with nefarious desires as his eyes hailed an unforgiving hurricane behind the empty abyss that would only consume the damned.

She has always been beautiful, but he loves it when disdain drenches her features, when grieving rivers stain her cheeks that makes control abandon him and his instincts demand to fuck her too hard than he intend. The purpose to have her clothed seems to be nonexistent, but an inexplicable delight awaits him whenever he undresses her.

She still trembles at the sight of him, though as not as much as he first took her. 

“No.” She'd whisper weakly, that little glimmer of hope shining through her heart was a fighter, even when she was aware enough not to protest. 

“No.”

He pushes into her, and she screams.

It's always a magnificent sensation, and he is breathless everytime he gets between her legs. Fingers trailing over the bruises tainting her skin between the spaces of her ribs, savoring the delicate arch of her hipbones in a way that fuels the Devil's yearning to see them burn in hell.

“I don't think I could ever fuck another woman again.” He says endearingly before thrusting again.

Tears painted her pale cheeks — he'd never hurt her there, destroying a beauty was unforgivable — but the warrior in that woman still fought against complete submission, she bit her lip in refusal to give him what he wants and an array of crimson beads stains her skin.

Alma drowns in the dread of having him between her legs, his inexplicable desires making it known that there would never be a day where he lets her dwell in peace for once. The pleasures of the flesh are notorious traitors, she knows this, because Jack has discovered way to wage a war between her mind and body with the precise use of his fingers and the often unforgiving movement of his hips. 

“You'll look at me when I take you, sister.”

He is the hate in her heart, she could never forgive him again. Not in this lifetime, nor in a thousand others. 

Mother and Father roll in their graves, and they deserve it for having their children pay the price of an unwanted debt. Eager to change their fate and live better lives without the skeletons rising in rebellion, they drank from different cups of power only to choke on the same poison, but only Alma suffers the most.

God forgive her if she wishes to take the hands of Death and abandon her children in a hunting ground, surrounded by sworn enemies and monsters unworthy of forgiveness, but then again, if such god existed, what kind would he be? If she lies underneath her brother, as he forces himself between her legs whenever his urges would exploit her captivity, his lips all over her, in places where a brother should never be, carving a sinister vow of their bound fate with the atrocities falling from his tongue. 

"Stop.”

Jack laughs at the small glimmer of hope shining through her doom. Sometimes, he misses the sharpness of her tongue, the venom dripping from her words, but she only compromises with the constant cries. Those brief gasps and suppressed screams, the movements of her body responding to his touch — it nearly drowns him in the maniacal haze to yearn for more.

He is the ghost from her past, that loomed from the supposedly forgotten catacombs to doom her future. 

What has she done to deserve this?

Manicured nails responsible for crimson cresents that would appear afterwards dug into her skin and her heart spews from her mouth.

Jack nearly loses himself at the sight of her — she's immaculate like this; their limbs entangled, their sins smeared on each other, and heartbeats reasonating like a haunted ballad. 

“If it is hell you're worried about...” He muses, kissing the blade of her jaw softly, and he pulls a string of quiet sobs way past her lips. There's a hint of arrogance in his tone, a twisted triumph. “I can't say I'd blame you —”

Alma tries to look away from the sinful union of their skin, even prays for all the gods she'd never believed in to awaken the smallest piece of sanity lurking in the darkness, somewhere, somehow and hopefully, still alive amidst his obsessions of thinking a sister and a lover could be one. 

“But that fear of yours is unnecessary—”

One hand wanders astray, down to her thigh — she flinches upon the contact against the bruise he'd made the night before — and he mockingly gasps in awe at the warm crimson his fingers found, as if that were still a surprise.

“We can burn in hell together—”

He has crowned himself the god of the world he built from tarnished youth and slaughter, that would only belong to her and him, the children she'd bear from their union would be of greatness. 

“And I'll be more than happy to dethrone the Devil.”

She is the thirst he cannot fulfill — an addiction he adores.

“But you've always been too keen on being the good sister, aren't you, Alma?” He moves faster, the last strings of control slipping slowly through his fingers. “Headstrong, independent, of course, but undeniably naive to the art of fucking — look at where it has lead you now, darling.”

Alma hitches her hips against him, urging him to hurry and be done with it, for begging and fighting for it to stop was proven utterly futile. He ensures mutual participation would make things easier for her, to ease her suffering at his hands for as long as fate's punishment condemns her for falling blindly into his sinister desires.

She is the fire in his loins, the madness that demands more and more as he moves with a depraved appetite.

"What will your sisters say?” Jack's words of macabre mockery slither through her skin, and he revels in that glory of having her reduced to simply one of his possessions. His prized one.

"Will they condemn you, sister?" He taunts, kissing her briefly to share the taste of their sin.

Alma tries to not feel anything — she only sees their faces, the gazes of pity and resentment — but Jack's pale fingers slither through her hair, varying hues of blue and black against the silken sheets within a sadist's grip. She meets his gaze with a strong resentment exceeding the grief; a woman's wrath. 

“Will they resent you for you haven't fought hard enough against your brother who has defiled you? Perhaps, they'd think you wilfully weakened your defenses just to feel a man between your legs.”

“Alma.” He says her name like an unholy prayer, and the last string of control snaps.

She doesn't know how long it would go on but she does know when the pleasurable perils consume his mind as her body responds to meet his demands, the careful arch of her back, the noises spilling from her mouth, but that doesn't stop him from fucking her with a renewed vigor.

The tears always spill across her cheeks, and he allows that because it makes the entire ordeal more thrilling than feeding people bullets. It makes the triumph even more better as he knows that he made her feel good in a way she cannot exactly accept.

“Please,” She isn't the greatest of her sisters for nothing, Jack thinks, of course she knows. “Not inside me.”

He kisses her tenderly, and feels the ghosts in her bones scream. 

She doesn't know how long it would take for him to finish, but when she felt him stop, horror replaces that relief. 

“Whore.”

Jack withdraws himself from her, and rises on his knees to admire the aftermath — he already salivates like a scoundrel in anticipation; porcelain skin littered with the art of a sadist's craft; the madness of a man left on a woman. He's always enamored at the sight of their union cascading down her thigh, the sheets evident with the crimson dots afterwards, and the thought of her being a mother sooner than expected thrills him.

With a finger, he tilts her chin upwards to meet his gaze. Soft, and sweet, and entirely too difficult to pick the fragments of her glory.

“You've always been beautiful, sweet sister. Only meant for me alone. I don't think I'd let another man fuck you, not even Myron.”

Liar.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope it wasn't too graphic. I only wanted the vague details included. 
> 
> I've always thought that the dynamics of the Bentham siblings were extremely strange, Jack's almost pathological need to possess and reduce Alma to an inferior speaks volumes I'm sure I'm not the only one who has heard.
> 
> Leave a review :))


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